The Birth of a Monster

Author's Notes: This is about Farfarello's beginning. I'm almost positive that there will be more on this subject to follow, but at the moment, it's going to stay a one-shot. I have other projects I'm working on, but this will be something fun when I take a break.

Schizophrenia and I are lovers…siblings. I, as my mother and father before me, am involved in a septic relationship that could only bear children worse then I am, as I am worse than my father before me. Ah, my father…I know nothing about him, however much Schizophrenia claims I do. She lies often, as well practiced in deception as she is at sensuality.

This place, this thing of a building that reeks of sterile bandages and urine and things I care not to identify…she loathes it. I don't much adore it myself, but it keeps her away, keeps me from our rather abusive affair. I'm the one who always ends up scarred, bleeding or on some kind of medication, the needle poking out of my arm, painless and yet still utterly unsettling. It doesn't frighten me, but that damned piece of shrapnel in my arm is just unnatural. I want it out before my mind flees me under the drugs.

I have been interned here, wherever 'here' might be, for something close to six months. I only know this because my physical therapist tells me every time we see one another. She is fond of keeping track of her patients, thirty-something others besides me, on separate calendars lined up on the walls of her kitchen, writing in that tiny cursive of hers how much each has recovered by the number of each day. I am not alone of the mind that she should have a visit here like the rest of us. And they dare call us crazy…

Since I've been on bad behavior, I've been sent to a small padded room for some 'time out' or whatever they call it this week. I'm fifteen; I outgrew 'time out' about five years ago. I am not too young for electroshock, which is unpleasant (to put it mildly), but it's expensive to the hospital and they would rather spend their money on people who aren't out of touch with society, someone normal. I can understand that. If given the choice between saving a semi-catatonic psycho who'd killed not only his girlfriend (who he raped and beat before slashing her throat in an almost artistic way), but created the most spectacular, utterly flawless work of literature on his first and final draft verses the life of a little girl with blood cancer, I would say that the common human compulsion would be to save the brat. Its how these people work, they've no love for the truly enlightened, however muddled they might be, if it's worth saving the next generation.

What happened to natural selection? I want the dinosaurs back, and then maybe they'd think twice before caring for those who are already dying. Or perhaps back in Rome, just before the plague hit, when the empire was at its absolute highest intellectual point. Ah, what I'd give to live a day in that world.

They haven't put me in a straight jacket, since I'm on my own and the security camera in the corner prevents me from self-mutilation at the touch of an emergency button behind the plate-glass window of the security office. I glower at the lens and turn away at the sound of the food slat in the door slide open. I shut my eyes, trying to think of the best meal in the world, even when I know that if I open them I'll find the mush they serve us everyday. So much for dreams…

I open them when the plopping sound of slop on my plate doesn't arrive. Where a hand usually slides through, a pair of eyes stares in at me. I don't recognize those eyes, or the offensive swish of green hair that falls into that face. The eyes aren't smiling, and somehow I sense that the expression of seriousness is unusual.

I stare back, unmoving, silent and expressionless. If this is one of those doctors they bring in from medical school, I'd rather not give them something to go on. They get bored quickly, passing on at an average of forty-three seconds. I've figured it all out because I have a lot of time on my hands.

The door closes, just as I expected, though a little earlier than I had calculated. I am adjusting them accordingly when I hear the bolt slide open. I stiffen, suddenly on guard. I slowly back into the furthest corner from the door, crouch and stay there, ready to attack whatever orderly dares come near me. It's too early for them to take me out. They usually leave me in here for a few days before they think I'm ready to see my therapist.

Dr. Manning comes in; white and pristine, slim black framed glasses on that fine nose of hers which I've always wished dearly to smash. Even the pencil behind her ear is disgusting. She makes me sick with the sight of her perfect ankles, her perfect painted smile, and her façade of sympathy when I know she considers me a lesser being. I can't stand the pity; I'm violently allergic to it, so much so that I forced myself to vomit on her shoes just so I could get out of a session. It earned me a few days in a cell and a sore throat from prodding back there, but I felt a certain joy at seeing her eyes flash angry when she realized I'd ruined her little black shoes with my wash of gruel, the same color, texture, and flavor it had been when I ingested it hours before, though several degrees warmer.

Behind her comes a tall man, the tallest man I'd ever seen, who looks both remarkably like her and completely separate from everything I know to be my world, like a glazed font of curly type among the Times New Roman twelve. He adjusts his glasses, his charcoal suit and black tie and I think for a moment that he looks rather like someone from Scotland Yard. I'm well known there, but not for my shining personality.

"He's been badly behaved recently, are you sure you'd like to be alone?" Dr. Manning asks, not looking at me, pretending I'm not in the room. She's good at this, especially when she's prescribing my medications and exercise routine. The man nods, but doesn't turn to face me either. I feel annoyed, but I'd rather not draw attention to myself.

Dr. Manning gives a tentative nod to the man and a look to me that almost describes the hell my life will be if I mess up whatever opportunity I or the hospital has been presented with. I sneer at her and wink and she leaves, locking the door behind her. The man finally looks at me and adjusts his glasses again.

"You should get those resized," I suggest. He gives me a quirk of a smile and the ghost of a shrug.

"But then I couldn't pretend nonchalance when I want," he replies. I don't get it and he knows it. I don't think what he said was meant to have a point.

Well, I tried the icebreaker bit, it's his turn. My butt still hurts from the shots they gave me, I known because I can feel it tighten from my awkward position. Again, not pleasant.

They stick me in a room full of pillows when they know I won't sleep. Pointless…I tune the man out, wondering about those eyes I saw before, the lovely half-face I saw.

"My name in Crawford."

"Just Crawford?"

"At the moment."

"You sound like a noir film. Stop it."

"Not a fan of the hard-boiled detectives?"

"I eat detectives for breakfast."

He snorts, and I don't think he believes me. I'm only lying a little, he obviously hasn't read all my records. It wasn't breakfast, but I had snacked on a detective's finger after he'd come to catch me. By himself…the fool. He was obviously green, with the lack of preparation he'd made to go after a known killer like me. He tasted awful, but his blood was an interesting flavor I wouldn't particularly mind trying again.

"Are you hungry?" he asks.

"They haven't fed me in days. People tend to ignore the pets that misbehave."

He blinks once, twice, and turns back to the door to knock on it, utterly open. I could rush him now and he wouldn't have three seconds to react. The time it takes for the nervous system to get a message up to the brain and back to the body is about six seconds. I don't move, deciding to wait and see what he has to offer. If he dares give me gruel I'll kill him here and now.

The food portal slides open again and a tray is shoved through before it closes again. He picks it up and sets it in the center of the room, backing away like I'm some kind of spooked animal. It's just as well; I don't want him in my personal space…he feels dangerous.

That's what made him stand out before, I realize, he has the air of murder, much like I do. His is controlled; it's why I didn't pick up on it before. I'm not used to any but my own, my crazy sense of distraction.

I stay where I am and look up at him, expressionless.

"You're not going to win me over with food," I say, my voice heavy with suspicion.

"I know," he remarks, but it sounds as if he knows I'm wrong. My stomach is growling silently and I can feel it knot as I smell something deep fried. It's all I can do to hold back as long as I do. I move slowly over to the tray, though I want to run.

Like I said, I'm hungry.

Its fish and chips, bloody fish in chips! The first I'd had in years. I'm so excited I nearly faint from the pleasure of smelling real food. I suspect he stole it from the nurse's lounge or the cafeteria. I rip into it, though I wish I had some vinegar and salt to slather it with.

"I thought you said I wasn't going to buy you with food," Crawford says.

"It won't," I reply through a mouthful of whitefish, "But it helps. You have at least half of my attention, so what do you want?"

Right to the point…I can't do conversational spirals right now, I'm busy.

"I want you to work for me."

I don't even pause to swallow; my cheeks are bulging in a way I envied little children of. One can't have bulging cheeks with gruel. It's so gruesome that one can barely hold it in one's mouth long enough to swallow. This isn't heaven, but it's close enough to Nirvana for me. I don't care if I am reborn a worm, as long as I can eat right NOW.

"Doing what?" I ask, skin crunching beneath my teeth. I savor it, but do not linger. "Killing people?"

He almost looks shocked, opens his mouth to ask me how I figured it out, if I'm really as perceptive as Dr. Manning believes I'm not. Like she, I'm good at pretending.

"You smell like it," I lie. He seems satisfied with it and closes his mouth again.

I can't smell anything beyond the fish and potatoes. I don't want to. In a contest between blood and street food, I'd choose the food hands down. Growing boys need their cholesterol.

"Would it get me out of here, more food, less drugs and maybe some money?" I ask, already thinking of my options once I have enough money to survive. Killers for hire go for a lot, I suppose, I could retire in a matter of years, not decades like the other people that work normal jobs.

I'm thinking Venice.

Yeah, I'd like one of those boats.

"Certainly, but we can discuss prices later. To do this, you would have to go through training, join a team…"

"Your team?"

"I don't have a team."

"Then is that your boyfriend outside? Couldn't be a bodyguard, or he'd be in here with us."

He thinks this over long enough that I know I'm right. This is nice, being right.

"I've no problem with training, or killing, or your little team. Respect me, I respect you, and it's one big happy circle of not murdering one another with ropes and pillows," I say something close to cheerfully. He doesn't look unnerved…good.

I like this man already, though his accent leaves something to be desired. Americans…ugh.

My stomach growls again and I look down at it as if that'll make it shut up. Crawford raises an eyebrow at me and offers me an apple he had been holding behind his back. The drugs haven't worn off then…I would've noticed that before if I was lucid.

"Still hungry?"

I'm always hungry.

I eye the apple.

"You know, Eve tempted Adam with an apple," I say, "But the man outside is prettier, so he'd have to be Eve…so that would make you Satan and you've got this whole thing wrong."

"Would you rather I go outside and send my partner in?" He didn't sound ready to do that, but he wasn't impatient with me yet. I take the apple and bite down hard.

Sealed deal, I get to my feet and follow him to the door. He towers over me by at least a foot. I would be as tall as he is if I wasn't lacking a certain nutrition, one doesn't exactly thrive in this kind of environment. I step out with him, the linoleum is cold beneath my bare feet and I shiver as he introduces his partner, the man with green hair and steady eyes who goes by the name of Schuldig. He smells like a smoker, though he isn't much older than I am, and his smile is unsettlingly reminiscent of a whore's looking for a trick. She's smiling, but she'd rather just shoot you and steal your money. She's a mugger on drugs.

He does not hold his hand out to shake mine, that is not the etiquette among killers, but he does nod his head to me in acknowledgement.

"What is your name? Crawford didn't tell me," he asks as we walk to the door out of the ward, to another that is less secure and more crowded. Through that ward to the elevator and then, I guess, to a car. With a little paperwork, a discreet exchange of money, I'm free, bought and paid for like a puppy in a pet store. I almost want to ask for a collar and ID tag.

I could reply to his question truthfully, but since he didn't give his real name (I do happen to know a little German, enough to know that 'guilty' isn't a name) I don't feel I would like to either. I look back at Crawford and wonder if that's his real name too. He's busy with the paperwork.

I think quickly and come up with a book Ruth once gave me, describing to me the plot of the story and listing the demons involved. I smile softly at the thought of her, of her escape and of my vow to hunt her down and kill her for ruining my life. I had the ideal life before her little 'admission', and I think she deserves to pay for some of her mistakes. She needs to pay for the mistake of having me, to stop running and face up. That's the whole point of mothers, making up for mistakes.

I think of the list of names, of one I thought rather beautiful. I have always entertained the idea of ghosts, so I seriously consider the name.

"Farfarello," I say quietly, the Italian rolling off my tongue gracefully, only a little accented, like Schuldig's English when he slurs his 'S's and silences his 'J's.

"That isn't a real name."

"Well, maybe I'm not a real person."

He stops to consider this, his eyes lingering too-long on my face before he turns away. Crawford comes back and users us down the hall to the elevator and to (as I expected), a car.

Please Review

Author's Notes: Yes, it's much the same voice as the other Farfarello fics. It worked so well I couldn't bear to give it up now that I've found my swing.